Tell me, dear Garcilaso,--thou Who ever aimedst at good, And in the spirit of thy vow So swift her course pursued That thy few steps sufficed to place The angel in thy loved embrace, Won instant soon as wooed,-- Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee From this dark world, Boscán, with thee?

Why, when ascending to the star Where now thou sit'st enshrined, Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar, Alas! so far behind? Oh, I do think, had it remained With thee to alter aught ordained By the Eternal Mind, Thou wouldst not on this desert spot Have left thy other self forgot!

For if through life thy love was such As still to take a pride In having me so oft and much Close to thy envied side,-- I cannot doubt, I must believe, Thou wouldst at least have taken leave Of me; or, if denied, Have come back afterwards, unblest Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.